Wake up and push the blanket to the edge of the bed,
Crawl out of the system and sip the water you just been fed,
Slip inside the cave build to fit your feet.
It’s the walk, the slow movement of the death march of the day.
Hideous the motion of the moment callous to the beholder,
Simple to run than to hold the danger close to the heart,
Beating fanatically the base withholding the ears,
The sound flashed every pulsating seconds of the lost years,
Careless to the rhythm of the beating pause,
Lusted upon the dangers of the cravings and the wild cause,
Gallant the brave soul who marched to the gallows of the brothels,
The rush of the blood was too damp to fit in their skulls,
Wooden clamps and the hard earned midnight reading lamps,
All covered with the dust of blood from the refugee camps,
Still ignited by the thought of a war looming over my head,
The hunch of the madness covered in the dream wrapped on my bed.
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